


RUBBLE

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arson, Death, Explosion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Scotland Yard is blown up by an Arsonist, trapping John Watson and Mycroft Holmes, along with half the Yarders on duty that morning. Sherlock and Lestrade only just escape with their lives and now have to face the prospect that both their loves were dead or dying in the rubble that used to be an eight story building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DUST

RUBBLE

CHAPTER ONE

DUST

John coughed to consciousness,choking on his own phlegm and dust and bits of grit. He wheezed in air, chest heaving, tears running from his eyes until finally he could get enough air to yell.

"Hello! What the fuck happened?"

It came out as a croak and caused more coughing. His throat was dry and sore and his eyes stung until he could finally breathe properly.

And then came the pain.

Both his lower legs were in such agony he thought he would have to scream again, but  
remembering how well that worked a minute ago he swallowed his instinct and gathered himself. He blocked the pain with sheer strength of will, pretending this was a combat situation and he needed all his wits.

His brain at once cleared and he processed his surroundings.

It was pitch black, warm, dusty, sharp and lumpy. What....? 

He was on his back on the carpet in Gregs office but he could sense he had very little room around him. He lifted on hand and he felt debris not six inches from his face.

Oh Gods oh Gods oh Gods he was in a coffin in his grave he was buried alive oh Gods oh Gods....

And then he remembered...

#

"Lestrade wants us at the Yard." Sherlock had announced that morning.

John sipped the last of his tea and washed the cup out in the sink. As he put it upside down the drain, his handsome boyfriend slipped his long arms around Johns waist and sniffed the top of his head.

"Pervert." John laughed, but he loved sharing warmth with Sherlock. Time was, not so long ago, Sherlock would have just thrown Johns jacket at him and demanded he come along. Now he told him what was happening in a softer voice and sometimes, like this morning, he even paused to appreciate the gorgeousness that was his ex army doctor boyfriend.

"Get your coat. Mycroft is giving us a lift." Sherlock said, but did not let John go. John leaned back against the taller man and sighed happily. They had been a couple officially for six months and it had been a lovely six months.

"Why is Mycroft giving us a lift?" John asked.

"He's nice?"

"Ha!" John huffed, then turned and put his arms around his tall mans neck. "Why is he really?"

"Government business."

"Nothing to do with the arson case we closed last night?"

"John, of course it is." Sherlock smiled, and kissed John on his gorgeous nose.

The car was waiting out the front and Mycroft was in the back. He greeted them both affably and Sherlock was even polite. Since Sherlock had finally wooed John the wildly fluttering and swooping detective had become calmer, and Mycroft benefited greatly from Sherlocks less barbed tongue. As a result, dinners were much more pleasant and interactions were civil. John very much enjoyed it.

When they turned up at the Yard, Lestrade was surprisingly pleased to see the Mycroft, shaking his hand, running his fingers through his own silver hair and making his eyes all glittery. Mycroft, too, looked happy.....was that a smile?

Sherlock snuck a knowing grin to John. John raised his eyebrows and mouthed "really?" And Sherlock nodded. John grinned stupidly. So Mycroft had feelings after all....and for Gregory Lestrade? Very nice indeed!

John and Mycroft ended up sitting next to each other at Gregs desk while Sherlock stalked behind them, waving his arms and gesticulating. Greg, across the desk from John and Mycroft, grinned and leaned back, quite happy to let Sherlock deduct his little heart out.

"And so he is caught yes?" Sherlock ended the triad with, and Greg nodded.

"No more setting fire to stuff, he'll away for twenty years with the evidence you two got us." Greg said. "We caught him at his apartment, right where you said he would be. He was in the middle of sewing a costume for the next comic con, of all things."

"Was he going as-" Sherlock started, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

A desk sergeant poked his head in.

"Mister Holmes? You and DI Lestrade are required in the lobby. There's a man down there who refuses to come up."

"For what?"

"He says he witnessed an assault but is too scared to come up the lift. Some sort of claustrophobia thing."

"Okay, we'll be right down. You have time to wait?" Greg turned to Mycroft who smiled and....was that a wink? Ye Gods!

"Yes of course Gregory." Mycroft inclined his head.

Sherlock and Greg left and John scrunched down in his chair. It was nice to have silence. Mycroft was good company if one needed to just sit, no small talk. John closed his eyes and drifted, waiting, and Mycroft took out his phone and began to tap away on it.

#

When Greg and Sherlock got to the lobby, a man was streaking out the door, leaving the front desk sergeant looking after him quite foolishly.

"Was that who wanted to see us?" Greg asked.

"Yes..." The Sergeant said, shaking her head. "He just said 'wrong Holmes' and took off."

"Wrong Holmes?" Greg said, and felt a waft of air as Sherlock took off. "Wait-Sherlock!" 

Sherlock ran out the front of the building and Greg sighed and ran off after him, exiting into the watery sun of mid morning in London.

Then the world blew.

#

Johns tears were useless,he knew, but they came anyway. In the back of his head he realised he should conserve water, Gods knows when he would get a drink again, but he was so frightened! Did anyone even know he was here, and what about the others? Mycroft and Anderson and Donovan and Gregson and...and...the little guy in the big suit...and that pretty secretary...

And Lestrade, in the Lobby with Sherlock...

Oh Gods, Sherlock!

Fear ripped at him.

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!" John began to scream. Okay. Now the panic rose in his chest. He was trapped in the bricky tomb that used to be Scotland Yard, nobody knew he was alive, and how was he going to hold on until they found him, how many tonnes and tonnes of rubble were on top of him? Would the pain, the heat, the dehydration, starvation, or his injuries kill him before he ever got out?

And Sherlock would be frantic, if he was even alive.

Something stirred behind his shoulder and he froze. Christ, rats, he forgot about...wait, rats? How would they survive in here? He began to whimper. Nothing was alive down here, nothing but him!

When something grabbed his shoulder he screamed like a princess and nearly pissed himself.

"Do....conserve...your energy....Doctor Watson..."

Yes Gods, it was Mycroft! John grasped the hand at his shoulder and held on. Mycroft's big gold pinkie ring ("a gift from a very dear friend") dug into the skin of his palm but he didn't care. Alive! Mycroft was alive! John was not alone!

"Mycroft!" John yelped, squeezing the hand desperately, almost trying to drag the man towards him.

"Doctor, the rest of me is...under the table.... It's the only thing keeping...the floor above...from crushing us...do be...careful..."

John did not like the sound of Mycrofts breathing. 

A quick feel with his other hand and John slumped. The only part of Mycroft John could get to was the hand he was holding. Everything else was behind plaster and brick. Not much, he could hear Mycroft quite clearly, but enough that he could not asses the man, even if his own lower legs were not completely trapped.

He pressed his hand to the pulse at Mycrofts wrist. Heart beat slow and thready. Not good.

"Injuries, Mycroft?"

"Doctor Watson....I am..."

"MYCROFT!" John snapped. "You said it yourself, DOCTOR Watson! What are your injuries?"

"I cannot...feel my legs, it is difficult...to breathe, and I am loosing...blood from what I can only assume is.... a major gash in my back."

"Are you on your back or front?"

"Front, Doctor....that is why....you are holding...my left hand..."

John snorted. Fucking Holmes'! 

"Do you have anything you can push into the gash? Stem the blood?"

Mycroft did not answer and his hand began to loosen.

"MYCROFT!" John yelled, clutching the mans hand tighter.

"John....so much to do..." Mycroft whispered, and the hand went limp.

#

 

Gregory Lestrade never panicked. He was always so cool and calm in any crisis. He had always been that way, as a child, a teen, a beat cop and now as a Detective Inspector. So when Scotland Yard exploded he kicked in and did what needed to be done, despite a huge gash in his head and an arm that seemed to not want to work. 

Sherlock, however, was not so together.

Greg looked up from guiding a pair of elderly ladies to an ambulance and paused. 

Sherlock was standing stock still, a dark coated statue in the swirl of rubble and panic. Lestrade had never seen the Consulting Detective so pale, and goddammit he was already alabaster. The dark dusty man was staring at the remains of the station, eyes bugging out, jaw working, fists clenched. People ran past him, jostled him, screaming and dirt covered, bloodied people, terrified people, but Sherlock remained still as marble, staring at the rubble. The genius' brain seemed to have shut down.

"Sherlock, come away, let the medics do their work." Greg stepped beside the dusty man and gripped his thin shoulder. Sherlock appeared not to feel him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned, his filthy streaked face a mask of pure shock.

"Mycroft...." He croaked. "My brother...John...."

"I know, Sherlock, but please..., come over to the ambulance, lets see if you are okay."

"John..." Sherlock said in a voice so small Greg could not believe it was from the same giant of a man who filled any room he entered. Greg shook the taller man very slightly and guided him towards a medic, who threw a bright orange shock blanket over them both.

This time, Sherlock did not throw it off.

#


	2. BLOOD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings...also, ReichenFeeeeeels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still running with the Black Dog but he's the size of a lab now, rather than an H.O.U.N.D.

RUBBLE

CHAPTER TWO

BLOOD

"Wrong Holmes!" Sherlock sprang from his his hospital bed in a flurry of sheets. His head pounded abominably and his bare feet curled in reaction to the freezing vinyl floor. He searched the metal locker for his clothes, opening his mouth to bellow for Mycroft. 

He paused, swaying as his circulation adjusted. It had been nearly ten hours since the bomb, and he had been foolishly unconscious for most of it. Luckily his mind had still been working, resulting in his sudden vaulting from the bed, unconscious to conscious in mere seconds.

Mycroft was not here. Emergency services were digging him and John from the rubble that had been New Scotland Yard...

He stiffened his back, along with his resolve, found his socks, his shoes, his coat and scarf. All these he donned over his hospital grade cotton light green pyjamas, ignoring his suit and shirt in his hurry to get back to the scene, see Lestrade..

The very man he wished to see crashed into Sherlock as he exited his hospital room, absently buttoning up his Belstaff. Sherlocks head rang and Greg grunted. He, too, had a bandage on his head, but on top where a brick had glanced off it. Just looking at Gregs face Sherlock can tell he was suffering a headache and was borderline concussed. Probably had been denied sleep for two hours and then refused to rest after that.

Sherlocks wound was to his temple. From the shape of the damage he had already deduced it was from a flying lump of mortar, released like a gunshot from the collapsing building.

"Sherlock, I was just coming to see you." Greg said, gripping Sherlocks upper arms to halt the Consulting Detectives' run.

"Wrong Holmes Lestrade!" Sherlock insisted, looking over the detectives shoulder to the exit beyond.

"What?" Greg asked, still a bit fuzzy.

"The man who ran from us at The Yard. He said I was the wrong Holmes. He was expecting Mycroft...." Sherlock explained.

"You need to get back to bed--"

"Don't be stupid Lestrade, don't you see. They expected Mycroft to come down with you...it was ME they were after!"

"Sherlock--"

"Have they found them Lestrade, my brother, and John? Have they found them?"

"Sher--"

"I have to get there. I....I will dig them out with my bare hands if I have to!" Sherlock twisted from Gregs grip and swooped down the hall. "He's there because of me Lestrade..." Sherlock called back as Lestrade ran to catch him up.

"Sherlock it would be safer for you to stay here--"

"Safe? If John dies...I will...GOD!!!" Sherlock smacked a doorway as he passed but kept loping along. " And....If Mycroft dies I will never be safe again."

Sherlock heard the suppressed whimper from Greg and catalogued it. He had other things to prioritise than the Detective Inspectors burgeoning love affair with Mycroft Holmes!!!

Nevertheless he slowed down and let the injured man catch him so they could exit the hospital and hail a cab together.

#

Didos song, on loop, in his head..

Teas gone cold...I'm wondering why...teas gone cold...

Sherlock nearly always let his tea go cold, distracted as he was with...with things. 

I will always make two. Even after you jumped from Barts I made two, for months. It would always go cold. I wondered why.

My legs hurt...I'm wondering why...maybe because they have not had blood for...how long? It felt like twelve hours so it was most likely longer. Under here, with the little oxygen, the lack of moisture, the injury...it felt like a dream, unreal and cloudy.

Remember our first kiss Sherlock? That was unreal and cloudy too.

Remember it?

I do...

#

TWO YEARS AGO:

Johns heart stopped the second Sherlock jumped from Barts, his whole world stopped one second later when Sherlocks body hit the ground.

The weeks immediately after were still a blur of drunken nights to John. Drunken days too. Hungover mornings and the annoying wasp of concerned people in his ears.

"He's dead, get over it, you need to move on, he was a fraud a charlatan...."

After six months of this indulgence, John crawled out of a bottle to find a filthy flat, no job, grey hair and a new determination. 

He set himself up as a doctor to the homeless, relying on charity for medicine and Mycrofts continued money for rent and food. He was shameless in asking for money from Mycroft. He knew it was his fault his beautiful brother was dead, and Mycroft refused John nothing.

Eighteen months later came an earth shattering phone call.

"Doctor John Watson?" A deep mans voice asked. Welsh accent. Clipped. Busy, important.

"Speaking."

"I am Doctor Llewellyn at Saint Mary's Long Term Hospice. We have a patient here demanding we call you."

"Sorry, what hospital?" John asked, frowning.

"Saint Mary's. In Wales. We cater mainly to comatose John Does. This one has been in a coma here for almost a year. He's been coming out for about three weeks. Won't tell us his name and he came here with no identification, but he insists he knows you. Won't speak to anyone but you...."

John sat in his chair suddenly, as if his legs had been cut from him. He had a feeling...

"What....does he look like?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Oh..he's good looking, about thirty to thirty-five years old, black curly hair, eyes....a kind of green, maybe blue?"

John drew in a ragged breath.

"Lips...?"

"Erm...maybe you would call them bow?"

John dropped the phone and he screamed and screamed.

#

He barely remembered the trip to the Hospice. He drove a rental but realised later he was lucky he got there alive. Train or coach would have been safer.

He burst into the hospice lobby, dragging his scarf and gloves off. Wales was cold, the hospice was warm.

"My name is Dr John Watson--"

"Oh! We have been waiting for you!" The nurse behind the desk twittered, and she beckoned him to follow. "He's been quite impossible, telling everyone's secrets and yet not telling us his. I hope you can tell us who he is though, he's been quite the mystery."

She pushed open a door to a wide sunny common room filled with patients and plants.

But all John could see was Sherlock, his Sherlock, sat in a wheelchair, facing a window, in a hospital gown and blanket. Pale skin and wild curly hair.

John froze.

"Sherlock--" he choked.

"That's his name?" The nurse said in surprise but suddenly the air next to her was empty. Dr John Watson was running across the room and skidding around the wheelchair, using the handle to swing him around and stop him smashing into the window. Luckily the wheelchairs breaks had been engaged.

"Sher--"

Those eyes, those indescribable eyes, looking at him like an alien cat, wide and shocked.

"John!" Sherlock cried, in that voice John knew so well, skinny arms shooting forward to clutch at John who suddenly found himself falling, dizzy. He landed in an awkward tangled embrace and then he was sobbing in incredibly large and painful jerks.

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock--"

"John--" was all the skeletal Consulting Detective could say before he, too, was hopeless with sobs.

Then the door was smashed open and Mycroft Holmes was running, actually RUNNING, towards them, just as Sherlocks trembling lips pressed wetly to Johns shaking mouth and they kissed each other for the very first time....

#

Legs are cold, I'm wondering why..

#

Mycrofts hand twitched and John snatched hold of it.

"Mycroft!"

"Doctor...we are still...here then?"

"Did you stop the bleeding, before you passed put, did you get something to--"

"John--" Mycrofts voice was rough. John realised he was probably very tired and just as hot and thirsty as he was himself. "My cufflink..."

"Yes?" John carefully crossed his arm over his chest. It was difficult in the enclosed space but he managed, hissing as he shifted his body and his legs were jostled. He took a minute to huff through the pain, then found the cufflink and plucked at it. "Your cufflink, Mycroft?"

"Yes...John...for the pain..."

"I don't understand Mycroft."

"Cyanide...if it gets too much..."

"Not an option Mycroft." John said but was very strangely touched by the gesture. Having got to know Mycroft since the horrible time after Barts, it was very singularly a Mycroft gesture. Here, I care for you, have a suicide pill, it will make you feel better...

"John....my brother..." Mycrofts voice was weak and his fingers relaxed, would not curl over Johns anymore.

John waited, clutching at the slackening fingers.

"My brother...." Mycroft said again, and John heard a soft smile in the politicians voice. He breathed in and then said, quietly "Thank you...."

Then there was nothing more from Mycroft Holmes. 

John was a doctor. A good one. He didn't need to be to know that Mycroft had passed from this earth.

"Mycroft..." He sobbed. Nothing.

John opened his mouth to howl, heart pounding in his throat, both his hands clutching Mycrofts fingers, tears roaring into his eyes, but before he could make a sound he heard the very muffled but unmistakeable voice of Sherlock Holmes.

"John, can you hear me? Are you alive?"

John gasped, sobbed, and coughed, trying to get his voice to obey. Finally he took in another large breath and screamed Sherlocks name. In the echoing clang that followed he heard Sherlock shout to someone and then called back to him.

"John, is Mycroft with you?" 

John could not answer. He was still sobbing, and he let himself cry. Sherlock would move heaven and earth now, the rubble of New Scotland Yard would be nothing to him. 

Nothing....

"He's coming Mycroft, hold on please, he's here, he's coming to get us..."

#


	3. FEAR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is rescued.

RUBBLE

CHAPTER THREE

FEAR

Sherlock was agitated the whole way back to the remains of NSY. Greg could tell he was thinking intensely simply by the way his eyes darted everywhere but landed on nothing. Greg himself tried to think like a policeman but all he was thinking about was Mycroft.

It seemed unfair to fall for the auburn haired brother of the insufferable Sherlock Holmes only to have him ripped from him before they had even spent the night. A few feverish kisses after dinner with a promise of a raunchy night some time in the future were all he had to cling to right now. He certainly understood some of the worry Sherlock seemed to be exhibiting but of course the mad detective was completely in love with John. How would he live without the sandy haired doctor in his life should the worst happen? 

"Why are they after me...what is it they want...to kill me obviously...but why me, not Mycroft..." Sherlock did not need an answer, he was merely bursting with questions.

"I think they were after the whole of New Scotland Yard Sherlock." Greg said. Sherlock turned his bruised face to Greg's, eyes slitted, scrutinising.

"Of course..." He said in a whisper. 

When the cab pulled up as close as it could to the site of the bombing they could see it had become much busier than when they had left hours before. There were police cars and ambulances still at the site of the disaster, as well as TV vans and cameras. This was a disaster of world interest and footage was important.

Sherlock was out and running, leaving Greg to pay. The DI saw the detective beg for and was given a stethoscope, of all things, and then several uniformed disaster workers were putting their arms up, preventing him from going on site. Greg sighed. It was going to get loud...

When Lestrade finally got over to the tall detective he had gotten insulting and insistent.

"I will tell your wife your penchant for horse videos if you don't--"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade laid his hand on the damaged mans shoulder. "This won't help!"

"I am sorry sirs but you really cannot--"

"SHUTUP!!!" Sherlock put up his hand and cocked his head, listening. The people around knew enough to stop all noise the second the arm of the site boss went up. In less than a minute all engines were off, all people silent.

And they could hear it. A muffled howling, deep within the rubble. Sherlock tore himself from Lestrade and scrambled as nimble as a monkey over concrete, smoke and metal.

"John, can you hear me? Are you alive?"

The howling stopped. Sherlock used the stethoscope on a large metal girder poking up from the detritus. 

He could hear gasping, sobbing, and coughing, and then a desperate screaming of his own name. 

John!! John was alive! Alive enough to scream! And if he was alive, perhaps...

"John, is Mycroft with you?"

Nothing but sobbing came through to him now. He was peeled from the girder by Lestrade and a rescue worker, and allowed himself to be dragged back to sit at the back of an ambulance. Tea was shoved into his hand and another given to Lestrade. Both were wrapped in shock blankets.

"It was John...I heard him.." Sherlock whispered.

"I know mate. They will get him out now."

Greg did not want to think about the state of Mycroft but how glad he was that John was alive. John was a mate. John dealt with Sherlock, made him human. 

Oh, but Mycroft held the promise of the love and companionship that Greg had given up on with his divorce and his 49th birthday. His hand shook as he sipped his tea, greatful for its milky sweet warmness.

He and Sherlock were mostly silent for two hours as the workers dug with shovels, jackhammers, and in some cases their hands, getting closer and closer to the live warm body they knew was there. Sometimes Sherlock would mumble to himself. Greg got them tea, inquired as to the progress, and tried to ignore the cadaver sniffing dog that was sitting, indicating he had found a body. He knew at least eighteen people were unaccounted for, not including John Watson, and all of them from his department with the exception of Mycroft Holmes. 

All of whom he knew. 

All of whom he had worked with. 

And then, finally, a whistle blown and a stretcher passed across the rubble to the hole that had been dug down to John.

Sherlock surged to his feet, tea and shock blanket dropped to the road, and found himself walking, drawn like a moth to a flame, towards the tape that showed where normal life stopped and chaos began.

"Sherlock, wait...." Greg said, and the detective stopped, eyes on the men and women who were working now with drips and bandages and everything a live person needed. 

There came a sudden flurry of movement and then the hysterical screaming of John Watson could be heard. Nothing could have stopped Sherlock from vaulting over the tape and scrabbling mindlessly over the rubble.

"I can't let him go, he'll be alone!" John was screaming.

"Mate, we need to get you out." Said one rescue worker, laying on his belly over the hole. 

Sherlock skidded to a stop and dropped next to the man. When he caught eyes with John for the first time in what seemed like years he felt all the air sucked from his lungs. His doctor looked like a zombie, pale, covered in grime, eyes red rimmed and hollow.

"John..."

"Sherlock, I can't let go, I can't let him go..." John red eyes were pleading with Sherlock for something the black haired man did not understand, but as his eyes followed the stretch of Johns arm he saw, clutched in the doctors hand, the cold stiff fingers of his big brother. His brother who was most plainly and obviously dead. Those were the bloodless fingers of a corpse John was desperately clutching and he would not let them go.

"John...please...release him." Sherlock said, throat small and voice husky. "He will be okay. You saw him this far. Let us look after you, and let these rescue workers get Myc--" here Sherlocks throat closed over and his eyes began to sting viciously. But he could say his name, he could! "Let them get Mycroft out John. Please. Come up to me, let's get you seen to. Please...."

Johns face was the picture of torment but he trusted Sherlock. With a very small nod, John swallowed, closed his eyes, and gently slid his warm, alive fingers from the cold grip of Mycroft Holmes. In three seconds the workers had all moved like a ballet. The backboard was lifted, tubes moved safely away, and John Watson was heaved out of his hell hole and into the night.

There was a muted cheer from the bystanders as he appeared but all he had eyes for, and vice versa, was Sherlock. The detective leapt to his feet and, without even dusting himself down, he was on John, touching him, kissing his face, murmuring, and John was all tears and sorries.

"I tried to save him Sherlock, but I couldn't move. My legs...and he was bleeding..."

"John, no, you did everything,please, I know you did. John...John I am so grateful you are okay..."

"God Sherlock..." Was all John could manage, vision swimming and darkening. Sherlock stepped back, and the stretcher was freed up.

John was swept away over the rubble towards the ambulance. Lestrade managed to clasp his hand to Johns to welcome him back but John merely nodded. He knew Lestrade would be broken hearted by dawn and he had nothing to say over his swollen throat. He was rolled into the back of the ambulance as consciousness left him again.

Sherlock wanted to follow John but he had a duty to Mycroft first. With no care for his own safety he slid into the hole left by Johns departing body and took Mycrofts fingers with both his hands.

"Mycroft...you fat git..." He said, sobbing the last word wetly. "You stupid fat git...." And he pressed his forehead to the unnaturally icy fingers, allowing himself to sob into the dust, his whole rob cage jerking. 

"Mate...Sherlock...climb out of there...they need to get him..." Lestrades voice reached him. Sherlock nodded. He gently twisted Mycrofts suicide ring from his brothers hand, pocketed it, and kissed the bare white skin revealed. Then he sat back on his haunches, wiped his eyes, and allowed Greg to heave him out.

The rescue workers swarmed in as Greg and Sherlock, arms around each other for support, staggered over the remains of Scotland Yard in the hopes of finding a lift back to the hospital.

"Molly...." Sherlock suddenly said. "She should...Mycroft...."

"Of course Sherlock..." Lestrade agreed and then to his surprise and not a little bit of shame, he began to sob. He couldn't stop it. And then, miracle of miracles, Sherlock Holmes was holding him and soothing him and there was no place either needed to be than right there, sharing their own nightmare come true with each other.

Behind them the cadaver sniffer dog huffed and sat again. He was given a ball in thanks. John Watson was the last person to be hauled alive from beneath the tonnes of rubble that had been New Scotland Yard.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a vote....the next chapter is where I tie up the loose ends and we fond oot who died, who dun it, and why. It is set months after this chapter. What I would like to know is....should Greg find a new love interest? I like happy endings and totes ship Mystrade but I...ki-....I ki-....I KILLED MYCROFT!!! ~wails!!!!!~ I was thinking maybe another Holmes, another brother, or someone completely original. Thoughts? Suggestions? Cookies? ~Suzette


End file.
